


Only Say My Name... Or Something Like That

by kirayukikira



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Alive Claudia, Alternate Universe - Alive Hales, Alternate Universe - Shamans, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Rating May Change, this is so abandoned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:21:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2393285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirayukikira/pseuds/kirayukikira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles was panicking. Derek Hale was... Crying. This has to be unusual, right? Big, badass werewolves don't spend their spare time crying, right? Especially not Derek Hale, the biggest, badassiest werewolf around. Stiles was obviously not alone in this viewpoint, right?</p>
<p>set mid-season two, near the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Stiles is Fed Up With Fucking Werewolves, Events Occur, And There's Foreshadowing If You Look Close Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or any of the characters.
> 
> Set during Season Two, but before the Kanima is revealed.
> 
> This was a drabble that I wrote, but eventually it turned into something else. It'll probably be abut 5-6 chapters long, but you never know.

 

* * *

 

"Derek?"

Stiles crept through the musty house as he called out Derek's name.

"Hello? Anyone there?"

He turned down the hallway to what he presumed to be Derek's room. First door on the right, that's what Isaac had said.

Stupid Isaac. Stupid Scott. Stupid Argent and his stupid problems. Stupid EVERYONE who were most likely responsible for the IMPENDING DOOM that Stiles was about to face. Probably.

 Stiles breathed in as he put his hand on the handle, gently turning it. The door creaked as he pushed inwards, revealing quite a shocking sight. Stiles was so stunned, he just let the door drift slowly inwards, creaking as it went. He stood completely still, but inside, his mind was running a mile a minute.

 Oh shit.

 Oh shit oh shit oh Shiiiit.

 Stiles was panicking. Derek Hale was... Crying. This has to be unusual, right? Big, badass werewolves don't spend their spare time crying, right? Especially not Derek Hale, the biggest, badassiest werewolf around. Stiles was obviously not alone in this viewpoint, right?

 Well, maybe they did. After all, werewolves were human too. Wait... 

"Stiles?" 

Derek turned around from where he had been sitting, interrupting Stiles's train of thought, and faced the teen, who was currently attempting to lean nonchalantly against the doorframe. 

"Yeah?"

"What the hell are you doing in my house?"

Derek stood up and turned around completely, eyes flashing red as he faced Stiles.

"Well, you see, Allison told Scott that her dad was having trouble with this... Thing, and that they needed your help with whatever it was and then Scott came to me because... Actually I  don't know and then we went to Isaac, but Isaac was busy, so he just told us where your room was, and then because Scott was being a scaredy cat and wouldn't come inside, I said that I would go so long story short we kind of need your help." 

"And you couldn't have called?" 

"Well, you're actually pretty bad at the whole answering the phone thing, and it seemed kind of urgent so we just decided that we would go to your house. Well, we being me. And sort of Scott." 

Derek took a step forward.

"Please don't kill me!" Stiles yelped, whipping his arms up to shield his head.

There was a silence for a moment, then Derek spoke softly.

"I'm not gonna kill you, Stiles."

Stiles lowered his arms and slowly straightened out.

Derek was sitting on the bed, staring down at his clawed hands with a mixture of regret and sadness. He blinked furiously as they shrunk back into his skin, seeming to fight back tears.

Stiles moved forwards, towards the bed, and sat down next to Derek.

"Hey," he all but whispered. "You okay?" 

At this, Derek looked up at Stiles. He seemed positively broken, without his hard shell of an exterior that he wore around the pack. Stiles could see the sadness, the pain, the regret, plainly etched across his usually mask-like face. Water gathered in his hazel eyes, threatening to spill over.

He sighed.

"I honestly don't know."

  

* * *

 

It had been days, probably, since Stiles had been to Derek's house. Since Stiles had seen Derek Hale crying. And had sat on his bed, comforting him. He was still having trouble trying to grasp the concept. Obviously, Derek had feelings that he chose to keep hidden, but Stiles always figured he would express them in a not-safe way, like angrily smashing vases or something. Not crying. And definitely not talking about his feelings to Stiles. To Stiles, of all people, not someone in the pack, not someone who mattered. 

Right?

Stiles looked up from his homework, which he had been trying, and failing, to complete. Stupid Harris and his stupid all-encompassing hatred of Stiles. What was the guy trying to do, murder him? 

He was interrupted from his thoughts by a tap on the window. Stupid werewolves. 

He stood up, and walked over to his window, where Isaac was undoubtedly trying to crack Stiles window in half with his stupid werewolf claws.

Fucking werewolves.

"What?" Stiles asked, as he jerked the window open, causing Isaac to almost lose his balance. Almost.

The other boy slipped effortlessly into Stiles's room, taking three long strides over to the bed that sat on the other side of the room. He squinted at the walls, which were covered with crime scene photos and endless red string.

"What?" Stiles humphed again, fumbling over to his chair. "What do you want?" 

"Derek sent me."' 

Stiles could feel his heartbeat speeding up at the mention of Derek's name. It was nervousness, right? It had to be. Stiles just didn't want to enter any blood pacts or get murdered for knowing that Derek had feelings.

Isaac smirked, presumably because he could sense the heartbeat of the other male, and stood up from the bed.

“What does he want?” asked Stiles, trying not-so-successfully to keep his cool.

“Well,” Isaac looked down at his werewolf claws, and Stiles gulped when the boy took a step towards him. “He wants," Isaac stepped towards him again. “To talk.” 

Stiles looked up at Isaac, wincing. In the five minutes that it had taken Isaac to say six words, he had backed Stiles up against his bedroom wall. Jesus.

He gulped again. 

“He what?”

“He wants to talk.” Isaac declared as he stepped back to give Stiles some space. 

“Wha-Where?” Stiles spluttered.

“I’ll text you the address and the time.”

“You don’t even have my number! Wait, do you even have a phone?”

Isaac reached into the younger teens pocket and pulled out his phone. He pressed a few buttons, then slipped it back in Stiles’s pocket, and left through the window.

"I do now."

“How do you even know my password?” Stiles called out after the retreating figure. "And you never answered my question!"

No response followed. 

Motherfucking werewolves.

 

* * *

 

It was two. Two fucking am. Stiles could have been sleeping, or doing werewolf research, or inside, where it was warm, instead of waiting in the middle of fucking nowhere in an abandoned subway station. Stupid Derek and his stupid rules. Stupid Isaac and his stupid text to Stiles at one in the goddamn morning with some random address. Stupid Isaac especially, who had taken a motherfucking selfie on his phone an had entered himself into Stiles's contacts as "The Bae" with a million motherfucking emojis. 

Stupid cold weather.

Stiles pulled his thin jacket tighter around his shivering frame as he stood in the middle of the subway station. It was practically empty, save a few blue gym mats, a faded purple couch on one end of the cavernous space, and a subway car on the other. Jesus, where did they even sleep? He supposed they probably slept over by the couch... Was that a blanket?

Stiles squinted at the couch across the room, with what might have been- no, was definitely a blanket drape dover the arm. Fuck it. Stiles was cold.

He trudged over to the couch on the other side of the room, sat down, and unfolded the blanket on his lap. It actually wasn't a bad blanket,it appeared to be a homemade quilt or something, and it was soft, although it smelled faintly of ashes. Stiles sighed as he wrapped it around himself. God, he was so tired. Stupid Isaac. Stupid Derek, and stupid... He yawned. What had he been here for? Oh yeah, the quilt. The soft, fluffy quilt that was getting warmer by the second. Surely no one would mind if he took a little nap....

 

* * *

 

Derek glared at the sleeping boy curled up on his couch. With his blanket. The blanket that his mother had given him only days before she was gone. The blanket that was the only thing that had survived the fire. 

It was eight in the morning. The pack had gone out for a run last night, and had come back exhausted. They had all simply collapsed on the floor and slept there, with the exception of Erica, who had wandered home to avoid suspicion. Not from her parents, who paid no attention, but from the neighbors.

Derek sighed. What was he supposed to do? Stiles was just sprawled out on the couch, long limbs askew, slumbering peacefully. It would be rude to wake him up. He'd just have to call the school. Or something. It was better to let him sleep, Derek decided. He'd wake up on his own.

 

* * *

 

 

Obviously Derek did not understand the dynamics of teenage sleeping habits, because it was noon and Stiles was still sleeping. Derek had rearranged the blanket several times, and had even thought about getting a pillow, before he realized he didn't have any. The food he gotten for Stiles had long since cooled, the room-temperature take out container sat on the lone table that stood forlornly in the far right corner. Derek wasn't sure if he should eat it or not, so he had just left it there, in hopes that Stiles would soon wake up. But the kid just kept stubbornly sleeping.

Derek walked over to go check on him, to make sure he was still breathing, at least. Actually, that wasn't true, the wolf could hear Stiles's steady heartbeat from across the room, but still. No one could possibly sleep that long.

He leaned over the back of the couch, inhaling deeply. Stiles smelled nice, mixed in with he smells of the pack, and Derek's own sent. He smelled... Derek moved in a little closer, till he was almost nuzzling Stiles's neck, and inhaled again. He just couldn't place the scent. It was achingly familiar, yet...

He was interrupted by a hand slapping him in the face.

Derek growled involuntarily.

"Sorry! Jesus, sorry, crap, crap, crap, don't kill me!"

Long limbs flailed around and Stiles landed with a thump on the floor.

A muffled "Crap" spilled out from under the blanket.

Derek raised an eyebrow in response as he walked over to the boy, still fumbling on the floor. The blanket slowly shifted downwards, revealing Stiles's face.

"Hey?"

Derek just rolled his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Stiles was peaceful. He was asleep, he was dreaming, he was content. Then he felt a small nudge on his neck, then another, and he finally peeled his eyes open to find that Derek Hale was... sniffing his neck? What the hell? 

He had freaked out, mildly, because seriously, what the hell? Neck sniffing? Was this a thing now? 

Fucking werewolves.

His butt was sore from when he'd fallen, taking the blanket with him. Afterwards, Derek had fed him some cold takeout, which he had reheated in the microwave. Apparently, there was a small kitchen that Stiles hadn't seen the night before, tucked behind a concrete pillar. And a table, in a corner somewhere, where Derek had sat him down and forced him to eat the food. Which, really, wan't that bad. He had smiled as he chewed, although, in all honesty, his heart was racing. Because he didn't want to get murdered. And Derek still hadn't addressed the neck-sniffing issue. It probably _was_ a werewolf thing, something about scent.

Oh, and speaking of things that Derek hadn't addressed, he still hadn't talked to him about the conversation with the feelings and the crying and stuff.

Wait, hadn't Derek called him there? Wasn't Derek supposed to talk to him about something? Jesus, Isaac hadn't been specific at all. 

Well, that was how he'd ended up at the Hale house again, waiting, he supposed, for Derek. Or someone. He had thought about calling Isaac, but the prospect didn't really sound appealing. 

He tapped his foot impatiently as he leaned against his Jeep, debating whether or not to knock. It's not like it would matter, right? Derek and his werewolf hearing probably already knew he was there. 

Unless...

Stiles did  _not_ want a repeat of last time.

And it was better to make himself known then be caught unaware. Or catch someone else unaware. Right?

It was with great hesitation that he walked over to the door and put his fist up, wincing. The, taking a deep breath, he finally moved.

_Knock_

Stiles winced. There was something sticky on his hand. God, what  _was_ that? He tried to turn around, but couldn't move. It was like he was paralyzed, he thought, as he fell over. He couldn't move. What the hell?

Mother _fucking_ werewolves.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

HEY SO I AM P MUCH ABANDONING THIS BUT I HAVE A FIC SUMMARY IF ANYONE WANTS TO CONTINUE IT OR MAYBE COLLAB THEN U CAN MESSAGE ME / COMMENT / WHATEVER AND I CAN SEND IT TO YOU AND SEE IF MAYBE YOU WANT TO CONTINUE ??? THANKS


End file.
